


The Patterns of my life

by ColorfulStabwound



Series: Drarry Dump [10]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drarry, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-06
Updated: 2012-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-13 22:32:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2167653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColorfulStabwound/pseuds/ColorfulStabwound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a pattern to be found in every element of life, I am more certain of this than I sometimes am of my own name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Patterns of my life

There is a pattern to be found in every element of life, I am more certain of this than I sometimes am of my own name.  When I was younger it was my structured life, every minute detail planned out for me. As I got older it was the chaos that surrounded me, even when destruction and evil was swirling around me like a cloak it was there; it was my loyalty, it was my family.  Now that I am grown I still see them, the tiny invisible lines of patterns as they start to form.  Sometimes I don’t mind them so much, they give my life stability and meaning where there once was none.  I am so much more than what defines me; I am flesh and bone, and love and hate, and anger and greed.  I am unpredictable and at times violent, and through it all I never forget that I am also, perhaps most importantly,  _his._

It wasn’t always this way, but looking back on it now, I can’t imagine it any other way.

Sometimes the things he does make me crazy.  Ok, to be fair I should rephrase that.   **Most**  of the time the things he does make me crazy.  He is far too kind and far too muggle and his hair is far too beyond help.  His clothes are not the kind I would like to borrow in a state of emergency, and his friends are not the kind of people I talk to unless it is attached to a disparaging remark.  In the mornings he sips his coffee in the most annoying way possible and there are always crumbs in his lap from his toast.  He seems to enjoy getting dirty and has an annoying habit of trying to please everyone. All the time.   He never uses a coaster and he always puts his feet on the coffee table.  He refuses to make the bed and always always  **always**  leaves behind toothpaste in the wash basin. Sometimes I think he lives to torture me, that he was specifically created to make my life a living hell, but then I remember that I love him, and all his annoying habits suddenly seem slightly more endearing.

He works too much.

Everyone had him pegged for an Auror, but he had to go and be a bloody healer. If I allow myself to reason with the idea I know it’s a far better option; the  _safer_  option; but I am selfish.  I’ve spent so many nights in his quiet house, watching his muggle telly (and secretly enjoying it!) and waiting for him to come home.  Sometimes he’s brimming with a satisfied happiness that he’s very nearly bouncing when he arrives and it spills over onto me.  He’ll recount his day with the excitement of a child visiting Honeydukes for the first time while I strip him of his healer robes. There will be no time for coffee or even a late dinner, only the sweat of sex as it clings between us and we’ll fit, like we should.  We’ll lie in bed after, fingers laced in the darkness and he will tell me he loves me, and I will smile and give his hand a faint squeeze and he will know..He will know..

It’s not always like this; sometimes the pattern is not so black and white.  Sometimes he comes home broken and defeated and I will wrap my arms around him and hold him close to my heart while Doctor Who flashes in the background. My fingers will trace over his soiled robes and my face will bury in the thickness of his hair and we still fit, like we should.  The coffee and the late dinner are abandoned, this time for the bathe, he will lean his back against my chest in the warm water, sighing softly at each wet kiss I deposit on his skin.  I’ll lead him to bed and his body will slide against mine, slick with moisture and warm with a desire that I’ve never wanted more than I do now. For a moment I’ll lose myself and as I once again wrap him up in my arms I remember why I exist.

Our outings are always a production.

Sometimes he’ll press against me and beg me to humor him and I’ll sigh in defeat, knowing I can’t resist those eyes and secretly amused at his ability to know this about me.  I’ll grudgingly oblige him and we’ll go out and I will sort of attempt to behave myself.   Even if I am unbearable he will reward me, I know this and of course I use it to my advantage.  It’s comforting to know I am not the only one with a weakness.

Somewhere along the way his house became my house too and then it was simply ‘ours.’ Now it is my table that he leaves rings on with his glasses, and my bed that he refuses to make, and my bathe that we sit in when he’s had a particularly bad day.  He leaves every morning just like me, and I am always there, impatiently waiting for whatever version of him presents itself. When we are older I’ll sit in the garden and he’ll sit beside me, and we will still fit, as we should.  Despite my misgivings I have been given this, and though I will always be somewhat unbearable I have him, and I have the knowledge that he has me.  The patterns that weave through my life are ones that I welcome. They are entwined around him and around me and they keep me on the path that I wish not to stray from..

 


End file.
